


No Nagging Doubts I thru III

by starshine24mc



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-07-05
Updated: 2001-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starshine24mc/pseuds/starshine24mc
Summary: It's spring, and my plot bunnies have multiplied. As usual, all the real hot stuff is either off screen or waiting for chapter two. A drabble inspired by recent events. Apologies if you just can't buy it, but it made some kind of sense at 4 o'clock this morning...





	No Nagging Doubts I thru III

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

No Nagging Doubts by Goddess Michele

No Nagging Doubts  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Date: April 27, 2001  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Category: snippet  
Rating: NC17  
Status: unknown  
Spoilers: season 8, with a dash of Requiem  
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE!   
Series/Sequel: potentially  
Beta: none  
Disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised, but in that good 'thank you sir and may I have another?' way.  
Summary: It's spring, and my plot bunnies have multiplied. As usual, all the real hot stuff is either off screen or waiting for chapter two. A drabble inspired by recent events. Apologies if you just can't buy it, but it made some kind of sense at 4 o'clock this morning...

* * *

"He likes you, you know."

Skinner looked up from the file he was reading at the sound of Mulder's voice.

"What?"

They were sitting together on the couch in what Scully called their 'Catdog' position, a reference that was utterly lost on both of them, but which made her giggle every time.

Skinner was sitting up on the couch, and Mulder's legs rested across his lap. He had a file folder open on Mulder's knees, and they were holding hands seemingly without being aware of it.

"The new guy. What's his name again? Doggett? He wants you."

Walter frowned and blushed uncomfortably.

"I don't think so, Fox," he grumbled.

"Are you kidding? I'm surprised he wasn't humping your leg the other day in the office!" Mulder exclaimed, and Walter realized immediately that there was more to what Mulder had on his mind than what he was saying. He tossed aside the file and smiled easily at his lover.

"I guess that would explain your 'alpha-bitch' response," he said. "Pheromones."

"I'm not jealous," Mulder replied peevishly. "I just don't trust him." His grip on Walter's hand tightened, although he made no move to rise from the controlled slouch he was currently in.

Skinner ran his free hand down Mulder's legs once, twice, then cupped his knee and did interesting things with his thumb, provoking small tremors in the muscles of Mulder's leg.

"John's all right, Fox," he said, then added softly, "He's no you, though."

Now it was Mulder's turn to blush.

"But I do think you're jealous," Walter continued.

"Walter." There was a note of warning in Mulder's voice which Skinner chose to ignore.

"Oh, not because of me-I'm not that egocentric, thank you-"he said quickly, before Mulder could protest. "I think you're jealous of Doggett because he's been here all along. He's got a chunk of time-of life-that you think is yours, and you don't know how to get it away from him. Or even if you can."

"Christ, Walter, you're not pulling any punches tonight, are you?" Mulder's eyes darkened momentarily, and Walter saw a flash of bewildered hurt that was there on his face and then gone so fast that, had he not known his lover so well, he might have thought he was imagining things.

Walter's response was to pull Mulder to him by their linked hands, so that he could put an arm around him. He stroked his back and Mulder shifted a bit so that he was leaning on Walter's shoulder.

"It's something we need to talk about, Fox," Walter continued. "It's something *you* need to talk about."

Mulder just sighed and stared down into his lap; Walter didn't press. He just kept moving his hands restlessly over his lover's body in a manner both soothing and possessive. If asked, Mulder might have said he felt cherished.

When Mulder finally spoke, his words surprised Walter.

"Scully's baby-is it yours?"

Walter laughed. "No!" he exclaimed, then softer, "No. She never asked, even though you said she would. She got sick, right after you-you were taken. She wound up in the hospital and that's when she found out. She doesn't know how it happened." Skinner briefly remembered being shocked out of his profound grief by her startling news.

"I'll bet Our Miss Morley had a hand in it," Mulder muttered, almost to himself, then added, louder, "I wish it was yours."

There was more silence then, which Walter was tempted to interrupt. He knew this wasn't easy for his lover, who seemed more interested in forgetting anything unusual had happened at all than in confronting the experience, and he wanted to help him, in any way he could. But in this case, he knew that Fox had to put his thoughts and feelings together in his own way, so he held his tongue as best he could, and waited.

When Mulder looked up at him again, he was smiling, but there was sadness in his eyes.

"It was nice to be back in my apartment."

Neither Skinner nor Scully had been able to let go of the cheesy one-room in Alexandria, not even after Mulder was declared dead and buried. The lease on it had been pre-paid, and even though they had several discussions, some of them frighteningly heated, about packing up Mulder's things and finding a sub-let for the place, neither one of them could find it in their hearts to let go.

There had been nights when Skinner had found himself drawn to Hegel Place, hurting, lonely and afraid, only to find Scully already there, dusting sometimes, or feeding the fish, or more often just sitting quietly on the old couch, looking like a passenger waiting for a train that would never come. Inevitably Skinner would join her, and if any good at all could be said to have come from Mulder's abduction and death, it was the close friendship that his lover and his best friend had formed in his absence.

"We couldn't decide who got custody of the fish," Walter said, and Mulder's smile this time was less unhappy. He squirmed around on the couch until he could tuck his head comfortably into the crook of Walter's arm.

"You gave Frohike all my movies," he complained, the words slightly muffled as he spoke into Walter's chest.

"It was in your will," Skinner replied, swallowing the lump in his throat that resulted from that happy thought.

Mulder kissed his lover's jaw softly, tasted tension, and whispered, "Leave it to me to have a plan for the porn, but not to work out some sort of joint custody thing for you, Scully and the mollies."

"Priorities, I suppose." Skinner matched Mulder's soft tone, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"I think that's what it's all about, Walter. Priorities. For all of us." He straightened up, and Walter immediately recognized his speech-making posture.

"Scully, for example," he began. "Her priority is to her unborn child. She has to make sure she can provide everything for that child. A home, security, financial and emotional stability.Then there's Agent Doggett-his priority is doing whatever it takes to get him back on the fast track at work; getting back his life of solve rates, case ratios and nailing the bad guys-"

"I thought nailing me was his priority," Skinner teased.

"You are a priority, Walter, but not his *top* priority." Mulder shifted again, and forced more contact between them. "And it's those levels of importance, the recognition of where each thing, each event, every moment of one's life even-it's where they all fit that is the only thing making it all work for me right now-the pursuit of that." His voice rose a little as he gazed at Walter imploringly.

"I need to know what happened to me-not just-" He groped for the right word, couldn't find it, and settled on "just up there, but what happened after, too. When you saved me." He gave him a grateful smile. "I need to know how I was healed." He touched his chest almost self consciously, and Walter tried to find any trace of the scars that had been on his cheeks-he saw nothing but smooth, unblemished skin just starting to darken with late-day shadow. "I need to know how I fit back into the world. Into *my* world, into my work. I need to find where it is I belong. I need to feel as if I do belong."

"Of course you do, Fox." Walter brushed a stray lock of hair from his lover's brow.

"There are so many things that want or need to be the priority in my life that it's almost overwhelming, Walter. From picking up the suits I left at the cleaners nine months ago, to staying off of the front page of the Weekly World News. From getting back to the job that has been my life for as long as I can remember, to coming up with an iron-clad alibi for when I throw Kersh out of his office window-"

They shared a nasty smile over that last thought.

Mulder continued after a moment of twining his fingers in Walter's, and chewing reflectively on his lower lip. "I'm still processing just being alive. Being whole and healthy. Some days I wake up scared to death that this is all a dream, some alien hallucination, or, hell, maybe just something I ate. Then my next thought is that what happened to me then is the dream, the false memory, and it's a lifetime ago and I'm just the spooky kid in the basement again. There's so much that I want and need and am trying to understand. So much to sort out." His fingers trembled in Walter's, then clutched tightly.

"But, Walter."Each word was punctuated with soft yet somehow hungry kisses. "My *top* priority.is you."

Next thing Skinner knew, it seemed that Mulder's top priority had become tasting every inch of him from the inside out as he pressed forward and thrust his tongue deep into Walter's mouth.

Skinner accepted the almost desperate kiss and returned it eagerly, and for long minutes they drank from one another.

Under the faint flavour of toothpaste, sunflower seeds and coffee, Skinner tasted fear and confusion, but mostly love.

Mulder eagerly devoured his lover's mouth, finding security, stability and sanity in the older man's kiss.

They parted breathless and smiled at one another.

"Being a top priority has its advantages." Skinner still had one arm wrapped tight around Mulder, while his other hand had taken up that restless stroking motion again, over Mulder's chest, his legs, then back again.

"I won't hump your leg at the office, Walter," his words came out a little breathy as he squirmed under Skinner's hand, seeking more contact.

"That's too bad. Certainly would liven up budget reviews." He swallowed Mulder's laughter with another deep kiss, then turned it into a moan as he brushed his hand across the conspicuous bulge in Mulder's pants.

"Come on, Fox." Walter stood, bringing Mulder to his feet with him, now kissing his throat. "Let's go to bed, and I'll show you *my* top priority."

Mulder acquiesced with something like a purr, taking Walter's hand as they ascended the stairs.

"Did I mention I love a man who knows where his priorities lie?"

 

* * *

 

Okay, Maybe Just One  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Date: April 30, 2001  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Category: snippet  
Rating: NC17  
Status: unknown  
Spoilers: season 8, with a dash of Requiem, and just a tiny one for In The Field Where I Died  
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE!   
Series/Sequel: sequel to No Nagging Doubts, Mulder's POV   
Beta: none  
Disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised, but in that good 'thank you sir and may I have another?' way.  
Summary: It's been a while since I tried climbing into Mulder's head, but I think he tells his own stories the best.yes, there's sex in this one, sort of.

* * *

I'm sitting here on the couch, exhausted, frightened, and pissed off, and even as I'm trying to sort out my thoughts into something less anxious, in hopes that sleep might actually come this night, all I can picture in my head is John Doggett, hanging onto Walter's leg like that damned dog on Frasier.

I shake my head and put the gun down again.

If Walter were to come down those stairs right now, and see me sitting here looking like I'm about to eat a bullet, he'd kick my ass. Twice. No niceties for my man, not when I'm in full-on depression, not when I'm acting crazy. But one of these days I will learn how to get out of those damn chokeholds of his, and then we'll see who's in charge.

I laugh softly and it sounds like a sob. I won't kill myself. I know that. But if something doesn't change, and soon; if I can't get through this somehow.

Part of me is dead already, and I don't know how to bring it back to life. Or even if I can. And that thought terrifies me. Not as much for myself as for Walter, who doesn't deserve this. Any of it.

Tonight was cathartic, in a way. Walter took it upon himself to draw me out of my self-imposed shell, the one I crawled into not long after being back, the one I thought I was protecting myself with. And, as is my usual MO, once he got me talking, I couldn't shut up. The verbal diarrhea I displayed would have pissed him off in the office, back in the day, but now he just smiles and says he can't get enough of the sound of my voice. I think he's just being sentimental 'cos his boyfriend's back from the dead.

Mostly back.

After we talked, Walter suggested the possibility of bed, and being open to possibilities, extreme or otherwise, hasn't changed for me. Of course, the fact that his kisses can still turn my bones into soup is always a powerful argument for his case. If I ever could have done to Scully what Walter does to me, she probably would have believed me a lot sooner.

I digress in my thoughts, and I know why I'm doing it, and then there's Doggett, traipsing through my thought processes again. Maliciously I do a little creative visualization, and picture both him and Kersh falling out of office windows, and my thoughts go back to Walter, and tonight.

In the bedroom, Walter was suddenly hesitant. He's been more than careful, despite my protests, since I came back. I don't know what he thinks, but I'm guessing that he's just afraid.

I smile as I can almost hear him blustering at that suggestion. But if I was sleeping with someone who was abducted by aliens, apparently tortured to the point of death, buried for three months, exposed to some virus that could turn him into an alien and then saved by having his life support shut off, I'd be a little apprehensive myself. And I'm not the cautious sort that Walter is, so he must feel it more than I.

I tried to show him that everything was fine. I felt good, in fact, better than I have for a while. I gave him one of my patented Mulderleers, which he says makes me look like a demented rent-boy, but it always gets to him, and tonight was no exception.

I love when Walter strips me. He combines gentleness and need into something that I'd have to classify as restrained power. Shirt first, and then that seems to be enough for him. He takes long moments to kiss me and run his hands over my chest and back, generally pushing me onto the bed at that point. Maybe he realizes that his touch makes my legs weak. Only when I'm writhing under his hands, under his mouth, practically to the point of begging, does he take off my pants. The cool air is always a shock.

Tonight he pulled off me as soon as I was completely unclothed, standing to remove his own shirt and pants. He's totally fussy about the whole process, but, oddly enough, it just turns me on more. I watched him drop his wallet, change and other pocket fodder onto the dresser, then fold his pants over the chair by the door. My hand strayed down to my cock as he tossed socks, shorts and shirt into the hamper, and I couldn't help touching myself as he set his glasses on the nightstand, then just stood there, smiling down at me. I thought for a moment he might want me to do myself, which I know he likes to see once in a while, and it certainly seems to appeal to the closet exhibitionist in me, but a moment after our eyes locked, he was lying next to me on the bed, and pulling me into his arms.

I've never tried to analyze the attraction I have to being in Walter's embrace. It's a combination of security and safety and lust and whatever else that just works for me, and I'm not about to second-guess it to death, as I do with so much in my life. It feels right, and that's enough for me.

He rolled over on his back, bringing me with him, so we were lying face to face, with me on top of him. I struggled briefly, thinking I might be crushing him, but he was having none of it. He kept those iron bars he calls arms wrapped tight around me so that skin on skin contact was kept at a maximum, and took my mouth with his, doing those wonderful things with his tongue and teeth that, even when I kiss back, I can't duplicate. Not that I've ever gotten complaints from him.

Thinking about it now, I feel my body responding just to the memory of how it felt to have his hard cock brushing up against my own, and part of me is tempted to go back to the bedroom and wake him up. I know he won't argue, even if he does have to be up in just a few short hours for work.

Then I remember the rest, and my ardor fades.

I tried to get out of his arms, not to leave, hell no! But rather to take more of him, to taste more than his mouth. I was practically drooling at the thought of taking him in my mouth, but he didn't let up his grip on me until I giggled at the thought that the one thing I missed most while being dead was cocksucking.

He gave me a quizzical look, but as it appeared that I wasn't going to go into hysterics, or leave, he just smiled back and then quickly reversed our positions, his arms coming out from under me to hold himself up a little. Guess he has the same 'I'm too heavy for you' issues that I have.

I told him once just how sensitive my nipples were-I think I was trying to explain to him how I may have been an old Jewish woman once in a past life, and that's why they are that way. I didn't think he was paying attention, but apparently he was. Since then, one of his greatest joys in life is trying to drive me right out of my mind by working over my chest in a crazy suck-kiss-bite-lick pattern that's no pattern at all but completely random and guarantees that the begging I've been able to restrain so far will come bursting out of me in a breathless litany that generally doesn't make a whole lot of sense. But he seems to understand.

I touch my chest, hesitantly, thinking I can feel the marks through the t-shirt I'm wearing, and sigh as I remember more.

He moved down my body then, heating every bit of my skin with his mouth, and I thrust my hips in what I hoped was an inviting manner. But as his mouth neared my cock, I suddenly had a flash-a vision-a-a something that I don't even have words for.

I wasn't in bed with Walter anymore. I was back in that chair. That nightmare that most days I can barely remember. But now I can see it perfectly. I can feel the spikes through my wrists and ankles. I can feel the hooks in my cheeks. And I can see someone kneeling at my feet. At first I can't tell who it is, and then I don't care as my cock is engulfed in warm wetness. I think that was the first time I can remember calling out for Walter.

Suddenly the hooks are gone from my face, and I can lift my head. Not much, but enough to look down and see a very familiar bald head bobbing up and down over my crotch. For a moment I think I'm saved, and then, as I watch, red hair sprouts from that bald head, and Scully is suddenly smiling lavisciouly up at me, her lipstick smeared. Then she turns back to her task, and I think I'm going to cum, but I don't. I just stay painfully hard as her mouth works over me, and I cry out Walter's name again.

Then, with another look up and a wink, Scully is gone, and a white haired man with the bluest eyes I'd ever known is in her place, and he's even better than she was, and I still can't come, although it feels like my balls are about to burst.

The changes are suddenly coming quicker, and I watch in horror as Alex Krycek sucks me right to the root, but by the time he brings his head back up, it's the cancerman, his lips sandpaper rough and dry and then he's Diana, who always liked to kiss it, and then Phoebe, who bites at the skin, making me cry in pain and pleasure. Faces blending into one another, faster and faster, all of them sucking me, and I'm terrified and turned on at the same time, even as I realize that those fuckers have been in my head, and have pulled images from it, and I don't know why they're doing it, I can only think that if I don't cum soon I'm going to die.

Even now, with the vision fading in my mind, the thought of it makes me tremble, and I clutch my arms around myself. My reaction earlier was a lot more spectacular.

I don't remember yelling, or throwing Walter off me, although he tells me he wasn't sure exactly what had happened himself until he was picking himself up off the floor. I only know that I came back to myself back in his arms, shaking so hard from adrenaline overload that I thought I might shake myself to pieces. My cock was shriveled and my balls were literally trying to climb back into my body. Walter never said a word. Just held me for the longest time, brushing a hand through my hair and pressing kisses to my sweaty brow.

I realize that I'm rocking a little on the couch, and I'm holding my muscles so clenched that they're starting to ache.

It doesn't happen every time. That's the sad thing. Like so much that's happened in my life, there's no pattern, no rhyme or reason to it. There are nights with Walter that are as amazing and wonderful to me as they've ever been, when both of us reach orgasm without a hitch, reveling in being together as much now as we did in the beginning.

But when these episodes come, more often than not, I'm a mess for several days after, unable to eat, sleep, concentrate on anything. I get snappish, resentful of everyone, feeling like their totally oblivious to whatever happened to me. I know rationally that it's not true, but I can't stop the biting angry words that spring to my lips. I can't help brushing off even the most innocent advances. I can't do anything, it seems, and the only thing more frustrating than that is the way Walter looks at me during it all. Hurt, but doing his best not to show it. To be supportive, to do whatever I need. His affection makes me feel like an even bigger asshole, and sometimes it makes me want to cry. Or worse.

I have to find out what they did to me. How they did it. I have to make it stop. For myself, and for him. The one truth in a lifetime of truth-seeking that I found, and that was everything I had hoped it would be. And I'm not giving up. I'll be as tenacious as a puppy with a slipper, I think, and then, like a tape looping itself on it's reel, there's Doggett in my head again, panting and drooling over Walter.

I laugh sadly, then turn as I hear a familiar creak on the stairs.

"Fox?" Walter's voice is thick with sleep, but I can still hear the concern.

"Just getting a glass of water, hon. I'll be right up." I assure him, standing up and walking towards him, not looking back at the gun on the table, hoping he won't notice it either, and he doesn't. Just looks at me, squinting slightly without his glasses.

"Are you all right?" I swear I can see the tick in his jaw, even at this distance, in the dim light of just the small table lamp in the corner.

"Sure. Go on. I'll be right there."

He gives me a skeptical look, but nods, and turns to ascend the stairs. I watch his bare back and buttocks working efficiently as he marches back upstairs, and I feel a stirring in points south, but I ignore it, not wanting to tempt fate tonight. Maybe tomorrow, I think as he disappears from view.

Maybe tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

Bathwater  
Author: Goddess Michele  
Date: May 13, 2001  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: M/Sk  
Category: snippet  
Rating: NC17  
Status: done  
Spoilers: Season 8  
Archive: put it wherever you like, just leave my name on it  
Feedback: Yes, PLEASE!   
Series/Sequel: Yep, a sequel of sorts to No Nagging Doubts and Okay, Maybe Just One  
Beta: none  
Disclaimer: C.C., Fox and 1013 own them, I'm just borrowing them for fun, not profit, and I promise to return them only slightly bruised, but in that good 'thank you sir and may I have another?' way.  
Summary: So my friend says "Why are you calling it Bathwater?" and I say "it's a joke, sort of," and she says "Are they going to have sex in the tub?" and I say "no, it's a song title," and she says "oh, right, I know that song-it's No Doubt", and I say "Yeah, get it? No Nagging Doubts, No Doubt?" and she says "but would Walter listen to No Doubt?" and I said. okay, I'll just stop now.  
Note: Shane spell checked this puppy, too, so, Bertie, if you find anything amiss, let me know...

* * *

It was late when he finally got here.

I had spent the evening doing what I do best -clenching my jaw, analyzing my own ineffectiveness, wallowing in a little self-loathing, and worrying about him.

Word had come down from on high-Mulder was out-gone, done, finished at the Bureau. Kersh had finally had it, apparently, and after all was said and done, Doggett, Scully the X-Files and I were still standing, and Mulder was out for the count.

I ignored the sick feeling in my stomach just thinking about it brought on, worried a little more about where Mulder might be, and tried to make something resembling supper. Luckily, the smoke alarm didn't go off, but the pasta was inedible just the same, and I opted for my second entree choice: scotch, no mix, just enough ice to take the burn off the alcohol.

I had brought home enough files for a week of evening's work, and completely ignored them, pacing restlessly around the apartment instead.

He'd said he might be late, but this was ridiculous. Of course, he'd still been employed when we spoke last; still part of the organization that had been practically his entire life. It was true that we'd often spent time together, idly fantasizing about what our future would be like if we weren't both living federally funded lives, but for the most part, it was just talk. We both needed the Bureau, in ways we couldn't even define, although I suspect I understood him more than he thought.

He was still searching, still questing, still trying to find answers, sometimes to questions that hadn't even been asked. Having the resources at hand, not to mention access to guns, cars and a weekly paycheck, had made the search just a little easier for him. And now.

I detoured from my aimless wanderings to add more scotch from the bar to my glass. Then I found the couch, the television remote, and some more concern for my lover. I knew he'd acted rashly under pressure before.once or twice.hell, he'd come as close as anyone I know to eating a bullet over the whole DOD/Scully's cancer/alien hoax thing, and that was peanuts compared to all this.

We'd talked some about it. About his abduction, his memories, his death. Things seemed to be getting better, although we'd met with a disaster or two along the way. Mulder is nothing if not tenacious, though, and on every level he's gone about trying to piece his life back together the best way he knows how. I don't think I could ever tell him how proud I am of him, or how amazing I think he is sometimes. I only saw him get taken, and I still haven't shaken the effects of that. What must it have been like for him? On some things I can only guess. He's as open and up front about as much as he can be, but we still haven't talked about how his night terrors have come back with a vengeance, or about his appetite, which is sketchy at best, or about that little thing that happens once in a while when he and I are.

Not a place I wanted to go then, not a place I'm going now.

So I turned on the television and started flipping through the channels, sipping my scotch and searching the news stations, concerned that there might be news of him doing something drastic, something I couldn't name but that my stomach recognized, twisting with worry. In the back of my mind, I think I was also hoping to catch some late breaking story about a certain Deputy Director with more attitude than brains having fallen to his death from the top of the Hoover Building.

I got neither story, and wasn't sure how I felt about that. On one of the seemingly endless number of video channels, a song was playing, and I immediately recognized it-Mulder had been singing it in the shower just two days ago-

I thought about getting myself another drink, and decided against it, tempting as it was. What had started out as concern and general unease was rapidly turning into something resembling a full-fledged panic attack, and alcohol wasn't going to help it. I closed my eyes, still listening to the television, and tried some creative visualization. Mulder had suggested it to me some time ago, explaining that he had been using it for years. The results weren't always perfect, but they were guaranteed to keep one from taking hostages during particularly dry budget reviews. I had to stop, though, when my general happy thoughts (paperwork done, days off, a cabin in the woods) started turning into visions of the NC17 variety.

Nothing seemed to be helping, and I finally relented and allowed myself one more drink, a smaller one than the first two, hoping to restrain my thoughts, which were getting more and more chaotic.

I kept channel surfing without paying much attention to what showed up on the screen; a habit I'd picked up from Mulder, as late night started turning into something most people would call early morning. Then I finished my drink, and without warning, found myself falling asleep as I listened to Ron Popeil extolling the virtues of spray on hair.

I snapped awake the second I heard the key in the lock.

I groaned as something in my back twinged when I sat up, and I saw the figure in the doorway freeze at the sound. Then he closed the door behind him and stood in front of it.

"Hey." I gave him our standard form of greeting as I stood up, but he didn't reply. Just stared at me from across the room. He was still in the suit he'd worn to work that morning, but the jacket was gone, as was the tie. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and the shirt itself was horribly wrinkled, as were the wool dress pants.

His eyes were wide and dark, and his expression utterly inscrutable. I recognized that face from any number of meetings where I'd had to read his beads about anything from ditching his partner to losing his cel phone. It was the face he used when he was incredibly upset and was damned if he was going to let anyone know about it.

I waited with what I thought was incredible patience for him to say something, but gave up after a minute or two when it was apparent that he wouldn't.

"It's late." I didn't mean to growl, but obviously I didn't sound as tender and loving as I had hoped as I saw his shoulders tense up, and he dropped his gaze to study his shoes for a moment. He recovered and looked back up at me with that same blank expression that was betrayed only by something sick and sad and about age four in his eyes.

"I was out walking," he offered lamely.

"All night?"

"And thinking."

I knew what he'd been thinking about, and he knew that I knew. It was there in his eyes. The twin mirrors of his soul, if I wanted to be poetic about it. No matter what Mulder might say or do, one look into those changeable, oddly coloured eyes could tell me more about his motivations, his emotional state, call it what you will, than anything that might come out of his mouth. I knew he'd been walking around thinking about what he was going to do with his life now, how this latest blow might affect his ability to seek out the truth, where he could go for information, now, not to mention rent money. I suspected that there was probably some proprietary worry for the X-Files division as well, as he's always been just a little too protective of his little copy room in the basement, and I knew he wasn't crazy about Agent Doggett. Then, of course, there was the whole Scully thing too, the pregnancy, his relationship with her. He had a lot to think about, and, while I had been worried as hell for most of the night, I couldn't hold on to it now. I thought I understood, and I was just glad he was here.

We watched each other for a few more minutes in silence, and when the next words came out of his mouth, they sounded shaky and frightened, although he was trying valiantly to smile, to appear like he was just making some smart-ass comment.

"D'ya still love me?"

Christ! Of all the things that I was worried about him worrying about, that wasn't something I thought he doubted. Typical Mulder, I thought, shaking my head. Never mind abductions, death, rebirth, psychological scars so deep they'll never fade. Never mind his partner, her new partner, his old partner, or where he fit into that mess. Never mind having more enemies in the Bureau than out of it. Never mind all of that; what had apparently driven him all night was me. My feelings. Towards him. As usual, he assumed that whatever had happened was no less than he deserved, and that everyone he loved and trusted was going to dump on him as a result.

I love my man with all of my heart, but sometimes he is as dumb as a bag of hair.

The growl was deliberate this time as I sat back down on the couch and barked "Get your ass over here, boy."

He didn't have to be told twice.

He was sitting at my side in less time than it takes to tell, and in my arms a fraction of a second later. For just a moment as his arms went round me I thought he might start crying, and my protective instincts rose to the fore. But when he didn't, I decided that no amount of patting, crooning and tenderness was going to prove anything to him, or help him through this in any way. I could think of only one course of action that would wipe away the hurt and mistrust in those eyes, and it wasn't a difficult decision. I tossed aside my Flo Nightingale drag for the time being, and took his face in my hands, forcing him to look at me.

He opened his mouth, perhaps to utter some witty comment about my surly nature, or maybe to apologize for something he probably didn't do, but I didn't wait to hear it. Just covered his slightly parted lips with my own and licked my way in. He tasted like bad coffee and good scotch, and I thought he might have been doing a little more than just walking. At that point, though, I didn't much care if he'd been go-go dancing all night at Rumours, so long as he was here, now, and kissing me back, which he was.

His tongue flicked over my lips, and I bit at his, still holding his face. Then I tangled one hand into his silky hair, holding it firmly though not painfully, and dragged the other hand roughly down the front of his shirt. Buttons flew as I tore it open and I tasted his muffled protest more than I heard it.

"Shut up," I warned softly, pulling away just long enough to form the words, then nudging his chin up to bare his throat. I thought I could see his pulse actually beating there, and I zoomed in on it, licking and sucking at his neck in a way I knew he loved. I kept my grip on his hair tight, and ran my other hand roughly up his torso.

Digging my fingers into the firm flesh of his chest made him groan and nipping at his Adam's apple made him whimper, both good indications that he wasn't about to ask any more stupid questions at this time.

I found a nipple with my thumb, then with my mouth, and his hands felt strong and warm on my head as he held me to his breast. Not that I was planning on going anywhere anytime soon. I know just how sensitive certain parts of my lover's body are, and since I was on a mission tonight to drive any and all negative thoughts right out of his head, I figured a little extra attention here and there would be a step in the right direction. If his inability to articulate anything beyond my name was any sort of clue, I was on the right track.

I reached blindly for his zipper, felt hard heat beneath it, and thought I might show a little mercy as he thrust into my hand. Freeing his cock from his pants quickly earned me an affirmation in the form of a breathy 'yes-oh-yes', but I didn't know if he was convinced of my sincerity just yet, so I left him hanging, as it were, and pushed him back on the couch, covering his body with mine and giving up his now slightly worse-for wear nipple in favor of his equally swollen lips.

He didn't seem to mind, although it appeared his patience might have been wearing a little thin, as his hands tugged at my sweater, then slipped underneath it, and his tongue danced in and out of my mouth. He was exploring every inch of my bare flesh that his questing hands could reach, and suddenly I had an added incentive for tonight's performance.

Television, movies, romance novels, and even on line pornography will assure you that, in the heat of the moment, your clothes will fly from your body as if by magic, without any discomfort or distractions for you or your partner. That the incredibly intense passion that is flowing between you will overcome any and all obstacles as the two of you soar off into the heavens of orgasm together, and that every moment with your partner will be a shared exercise in grace and bliss.

Yeah, right.

I managed to avoid crushing him, which was a good thing, although I caught a clumsy elbow that would have sent my glasses flying had I not removed them earlier in the evening. He struggled with the tightness of my pants and I fought a small war with a shirtsleeve that didn't want to come loose. Oddly enough, all our clumsy maneuverings just seemed to excite him more, and I know I was sporting quite possibly the stiffest hard-on of my life.

I was down to nothing but a sock, and his shirt was still hanging off of one arm when we hit the floor. Luckily, my ass broke his fall. The startled sound I made as the air was knocked out of me made him giggle, but I cut the sound off as I bit his earlobe and stroked his cock.

He immediately found that non-verbal place again, and his hips jerked hard against mine, crushing my hand between our bodies and driving me further into the carpet. I squeezed a little harder as I felt the first signals of rugburn across my ass, and immediately decided that if I was too old for couch sex, we were both definitely too old for the floor.

We made it as far as the coffee table.

I could remember buying the thing, and the way the fellow at Ikea had gone on and on about the sturdy nature of this particular table. I also remembered thinking at the time that the salesman had looked a little like Mulder as he extolled the virtues of the wood, the finish and the incredible durability of the thing.

As I lifted my lover and myself off of the floor, I hoped like hell that the guy was right.

I pushed and he struggled and I lifted and he helped and then I was kneeling between his legs as they draped over the end of the table, his ass in the air and his cock trapped beneath his body.

Suddenly, the furniture salesman was in my head: ".an added convenience with this model is this tiny drawer, perfect for holding your television remote, your TV guide, any small thing you might need for entertaining in the living room is right at your fingertips."

He was right.

The lube was half-empty and the condom was old though not expired, and I remembered finding them there the first time and blushing at the apparent lecherous nature of my lover, and wondering if he'd hidden similar items anywhere else in the apartment. I think this was the first time I'd opened the drawer since Mulder had been taken from me, and I know it was the first time I can remember saying a silent prayer of thanks to a furniture salesman as I was preparing to fuck someone.

I didn't take a whole lot of prep time, but I don't think he minded. At the first touch of my hand on his ass, he squirmed and gasped, and as my fingers entered him slowly he cried out my name in a strangled voice and started to turn over.

I liked him just where he was, and I gave him a little crook of my fingers, a wordless suggestion that he would perhaps be just fine as he was, while my other hand snaked down between his legs and pulled softly.

He'd never been so agreeable, although trying this in the office might have gotten us in a bit of trouble. Or at least raised Scully's eyebrow a time or two.

I could feel pre-cum slicking up the head of his cock, and a shudder worked through his body, so I abandoned him briefly to sheath myself then adjusted his hips and my body for easiest entry.

He was hot and tight but oh-so-ready, and the ease at which our pairing was accomplished made the entire scene all that much sweeter for me, and I suspected, for him as well. I stilled once I was completely embedded in him, just relishing the feel of him, real and whole and wanting me as much as I wanted him.

Then I felt his muscles tense, and it seemed he was trying to move again, so I moved first, pumping in and out of him with a couple of hard sharp thrusts that got his attention and made him groan. I stretched out over him and pulled his arms forward, wrapping my hands around his forearms and holding him firmly in place, finding a rhythm that suited both of us. I found the pulse point on the side of his neck that I'd been attached to earlier and nipped at it, then just licked and nuzzled at the spot, knowing I would be leaving marks by the time I was done and knowing he'd be happy about that.

His ass was moving back against me as hard as I was pushing forward, and I had a quick moment of concern for his cock, hoping like hell that the varnish on the wood table was as durable as promised.

He apparently had no such worries, and was rubbing himself vigorously back and forth across the table, alternating between what felt like an attempt to escape from beneath me and an equally desperate attempt to draw all of me into himself.

I pulled my mouth off of his neck with a satisfying smack, redoubled my efforts as I felt the muscles in my groin tightening in that good, familiar 'you're about to see stars, Walter' way, and put my lips next to his ear. Blowing a little brought him close to the edge, too, if that sudden added tightness was any indication. Then, as my orgasm boiled out of me and I crushed him to the table, I whispered:

"I love you, you son-of-a-bitch. I always loved you. I will always love you. I love you, Fox."

We wound up back on the floor.

The force of his orgasm knocked us both back, and, as I noted the wet puddle on the coffee table, the nasty full-condom sensation on my receding erection and the not uncomfortable weight of a panting sweaty Mulder sprawled across my chest, I thought maybe he had gotten the point.

Both of us concentrated on finding enough oxygen in the room to keep from passing out, and after a few minutes he looked up at me, eyes shiny, lips swollen and wet, and he grinned and gave me the softest kiss on the cheek.

"That was.unexpected," he said.

"It shouldn't have been."

"I know." With a tremendous groan he got to his feet and held out a hand.

I stripped off the condom and threw it under the coffee table, for once in my life not the least bit distressed about what that particular item might be doing to the feng shui of the room.

"Let's go to bed," he suggested.

"It's morning, Mulder," I replied.

"Yeah, but I've got the day off."

It wouldn't be the last word on the subject, but it was enough for now.

  
Archived: May 18, 2001 


End file.
